


Fall and Climb

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry!John, Cheating, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, In a way, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, M/M, Mentions of Mary, Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock doesn't care about Mary, Smut, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6007816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the February Twelve in Twelve challenge. Prompt: Second Chances.</p>
<p>After being away for two years, Sherlock bursts back into John's life on that fateful night, as John is about to propose to his girlfriend. Everything is different now; but Sherlock wants John back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall and Climb

He doesn't even see her at first. He sees John, is excited to see John, thrilled (and nervous) to burst back into his life, so much so that he isn't even thinking about how he's doing it – how is it going to be when John sees him again, when he sees that Sherlock isn't dead.

But once it all happens, and John of course gets angry (how did Sherlock not foresee this, _stupid, stupid_ ), once John fixes him with a furious stare and Sherlock just wants to shrink and sulk – maybe apologise? - that's when he sees her. Hears her voice – ‘ _do you have any idea what you've done?’–_ manages to unchain his eyes from John’s, long enough to look at her.

She's small, blonde, short hair (shorter than Sherlock’s), blue eyes (darker than Sherlock’s), about John’s age (older than Sherlock). She's dressed up. John is dressed up. John was ordering wine. John is hiding a little blue box in the pocket of his suit jacket.

Sherlock's heart stutters, then resumes hammering in his chest, and now it's not just fear at John's reaction and at the beating he was definitely going to get from him.

 

 

\------

 

 

John is so different with him, now.

Sherlock thinks and thinks, as he shuffles his phone in his hands nervously, as he feels like the rug has been pulled from underneath his feet and like the entire foundation of his life is shaking and crumbling.

It was him and John, before everything, the two of them – and now Sherlock remembers how complete he felt back then, before he left. He had a flatmate and a friend and a partner-in-crime and a protector; he had John, always with him, sharing everything with him. He had something he’d never had before, with anyone else.

(He thought John loved him. He thought he loved John. He thought they’d have time and that nothing was ever going to change that.)

He wants a second chance.

 

 

\------

 

 

It takes six days, a large amount of texts, and two phone calls to John’s GP office before John agrees to meet with Sherlock.

John's new flat (with Mary!) is in Barnes. It's way too far from everything – from London, from Scotland Yard, from anything interesting really. From Baker Street.

Sherlock stands by the breakfast table (neat and tidy, and there's a little blue notepad with a shopping list in bubbly hand writing – Mary’s) while John sits on a stool, his hand wrapped around a tumbler full of brown liquor. John hasn't asked if Sherlock wants to take a seat.

“John. Why?”

John's eyes rise to nail Sherlock to the spot at his question. His jaw is set so tightly Sherlock imagines his teeth are grinding. His response comes out in a growl.

“Why…?”

Sherlock's eyes widen without his permission (stupid, useless transport) and he swallows - John Watson is the only person capable of making him feel scared. He wants to ask so many _whys_ – why are you angry? Why are you still with Mary? _Why were you going to ask her to marry you?_ But he realises that none of them are acceptable right now, all of them will make John furious and most certainly earn Sherlock a fist across his cheekbone.

“Let me ask you why, instead,” John says, and the hand that's not strangling the glass flexes open and closed, repeatedly. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

Sherlock raises frightened eyes on John, forces himself to keep them on him. He tries to speak, but John talks over him.

“I would ask you why you did it, in the first place – but you know, you'd probably just say ‘why not’ and I'd rather not hear you say that.”

Sherlock swallows again, looks down, then looks up. Forces his eyebrows into a frown. Makes a request. “John, please.”

John sets his jaw again. His eyes settle on Sherlock’s face, and he waits.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock says, voice just a breath because, somehow, he can't make it louder. “I will – I will explain everything to you, someday, I promise I will—“and John laughs humourlessly, shakes his head disbelievingly. Frantically, Sherlock continues, raising his voice a little to have his attention again. “I will. Please believe me. I know it's a lot to ask right now, I know, but please.”

John looks back at him, blinks, and Sherlock can see that he's biting the inside of his lower lip, most likely to keep himself from saying what he really wants to say.

“John, I—“Sherlock takes a deep breath. His heart is thundering in his chest again; he'd never imagined it would go this way, but here goes. “John. I want a second chance.”

His words stay suspended in the air for three seconds, _three horrible seconds_ , and then John frowns again and glares, uncomprehending.

“A second chance? For what?”

Sherlock looks at him from under his eyelashes, just for the split second it takes him to gauge distances and positions; then he bends down, enough to level their heights, and kisses John. If this earns him a smack on the mouth, then, well – he’ll take it.

“Sherlock!” John shouts – four seconds later, he let Sherlock kiss him for four seconds- , grabs Sherlock by the shoulders firmly and pulls him back. “What the hell are you doing?” His eyes are aflame but he doesn't look disgusted – just angered. _Good._

“John, I –“

“Why now, Sherlock?” John's question is again suspended mid-air like a missile that's run out of fuel. John looks tired.

“Please give me another chance, John. Please. We can still – there's still time. I'll make it up to you.”

Sherlock can only see John shaking his head, and it's in such a defeated way that Sherlock's heart cramps for a quarter of a second, and when it beats again, it hurts.

“I'm engaged, now, Sherlock,” John says, a disbelieving edge to his voice and his head still shaking.

Sherlock has to protest. “You're not – you didn't ask!” _He didn't ask_ – they were interrupted. Sherlock interrupted them.

There’s only time for John to take another inhale – frustrated? - sniffing out of his nostrils as he looks away, and then there’s the noise of keys in the lock, a door opening down the hallway, keys clinking again against metal. _Talk about interrupting._

“I picked up the milk as you asked,” Mary’s shrill and upbeat voice says from the other room. Sherlock imagines she’s taking off her shoes, and also thinks that he’s never remembered to buy milk when John asked him to. “I also got us some takeaway? So we can just watch Gogglebox tonight.”

John turns back to glare at Sherlock again, frown deep between his eyebrows, and he doesn’t need to say anything. Sherlock blinks, then looks down, gives a half-nod, then turns to make his way towards the door. The takeaway is on the floor but luckily Mary is in the bathroom, so he doesn’t have to see her as he leaves.

 

 

 

\------

 

 

Well, clearly Sherlock is out of his depth. He's never done this before – courting someone. Trying to woo someone? He cringes in his own mind - he knows John would bristle at the thought of _being courted._

But wasn't that, what Sherlock was doing, before he left, anyway? He supposes they did it to each other. A mutual attempt at wooing: Sherlock deduced and preened, John praised and gaped. Sherlock dressed well, curbed his temper and mouth, knowing that it was what John liked; John followed, watched his back, gave in to requests, knowing it was what Sherlock wanted.

Regardless, Sherlock will do what he needs to do to sort out this situation.

He starts by sending texts. He never calls if he can text, and texts are clear and concise and there's no ‘hmmm-ing’ and he can't get flustered between words if John doesn't respond properly. Except, two days and a half of no response mean that this is not working – so Sherlock has to try calling. It's John, anyway, and he likes to hear John's voice, and the way it sounds over the phone – husky, roughened – makes Sherlock feel as if they are whispering to each other, it feels intimate. But John doesn't respond to that either: all of Sherlock’s calls (fifteen, in one day) go unanswered.

So Sherlock resorts to sending letters. He hardly cares if this is a surpassed, almost obsolete method of communication – it’s actually perfect, because, if he doesn't specify the sender on the envelope, John will definitely open it out of curiosity, and read its contents, and finally know what Sherlock is trying to say. Also, the letters might make Mary jealous. Sherlock hopes so.

Sherlock sends four notes, over four days, all by next day delivery.

 

_“I want you to forgive me, John.”_

_“Please_ _, John. Fo_ _rgive me. I am immensely sorry, and I'm being honest_ _,_ _I swear.”_

_“Please come home.”_

_“I would very much like to try that again. If you don't mind. I would like to try and kiss you again.”_

He receives a response, in the form of a text (two texts), on the fifth day.

 

**Sherlock, stop sending letters. –J**

**Mary is getting jealous. -J**

 

 

Sherlock reads the texts, smiles gently to himself, reads them again just for the satisfaction of it.

 

Good, very good.

 

 

 

\------

 

 

A week later, and he's thinking about his next step – the unfolding of his plan, though if he has to be honest, this is a plan the outcome of he can only vaguely estimate since he doesn't have any precedent element of comparison – when the door downstairs opens and closes behind someone. Sherlock stops frowning over his microscope to stand up – he's already figured out who that is of course – and walks back into the living room just as John appears, looking dishevelled and sheepish and stiff from the cold.

“You said you wanted to try that – what you did? Again?” John says without much preamble, raises his eyes to look at Sherlock from under his lashes, still sheepish but with the glint of a challenge. Sherlock only has time to blink, once, twice, and then John is on him, mouth on mouth and chest against chest and John's hands wrapped around Sherlock’s biceps and holding him still.

Aside from not knowing where to put his own hands (John's waist? John's arms? Nowhere on John?) Sherlock is pretty satisfied with the current state of events, and tilts his head, closes his eyes and opens his mouth for John to kiss him properly. John is a really good kisser, he's a really good guide and Sherlock is able to follow all his hints, to open his mouth and deepen the kiss – breathe through his nose – and let his lower lip be sucked and bitten, let John’s tongue explore everywhere.

John definitely tastes of whisky, in his mouth and in his breath; John is definitely intoxicated. Heavily so. But Sherlock wants to be docile and pliant and warm and a good kissing partner for John, so that John won't stop, and he's also enjoying this, which is why he doesn't want John to stop.

Intoxicated or not, it's obvious that John wants him. Sherlock is so fixated on this thought, and on the heavy breaths and moans he's making for John, that he doesn't notice John’s arm sneaking behind his back to hold him firmly against his chest, his other hand sliding from the edge of Sherlock’s ribcage, up over Sherlock’s thin cotton lounging shirt, to Sherlock’s left nipple; Sherlock notices, though, when John pinches it, sharp with the tip of his thumb and index finger and it hurts, it stings for a good whole second and Sherlock whines involuntarily, out of surprise, into John’s mouth.

That's when John stops.

Sherlock blinks, and looks into John's eyes and sees that they're wide, and shocked as if he's only just realised what is happening, as if he's just seen it’s Sherlock the person he's holding in his arms – Sherlock reaches out, attempts to resume the kissing because they certainly weren't done, and Sherlock shouldn't have whined like a prudish little virgin and he's not going to again and John definitely can do whatever he wants to Sherlock’s nipples and whichever else part of his body.

John catches his chin with his sturdy fingers and nudges him back.

“Sherlock, no.”

“John..”

“What is this? What are we doing? What am I doing??” John says, a thick layer of frustration and unhappiness weighing his voice down as he racks his hand through his hair, takes a step back. Sherlock doesn't say anything, only tilts his chin up and keeps his eyes on John, bracing himself for the avalanche.

“I'm with Mary, Sherlock!” John says, slamming his hands on his thighs in annoyance, as if this is all Sherlock’s fault, as if it was down to him to remember that John is taken.

Sherlock sets his lips.

“You haven't asked her,” he murmurs. He really didn't want to be talking about this – but if John has to be dramatic, then Sherlock is going to remind him that he doesn't have to rescind an engagement just yet

“I have.” John's voice is snarling a bit; Sherlock thinks that maybe he's not safe from that smack on the mouth just yet. “I asked her. She said _no_.”

John looks straight at Sherlock, and his eyes are so dark they are black. He's breathing hard. Sherlock just stands there – he is honestly, sincerely shocked because he certainly wasn't expecting this. Mary to say no to marrying John.

Of course this eliminates a whole section of Sherlock’s plan, and Sherlock frankly wants to be happy about it, but is aware he should not show happiness right now - not with an angry-looking drunk John in front of him.

When a few moments pass in silence, John closes his eyes briefly, then looks up at Sherlock. Looks defeated.

“I'm going home.”

As he grabs his jacket from where it's thrown over the back of the chair – when did John throw it over the back of the chair? – Sherlock takes a half step forward in weak protest, wants to say ‘how will you get home in that state?” But John anticipates him, waves a hand dismissively, and it makes Sherlock step back again.

“I'll hail a cab.”

Sherlock can only listen to his quick steps down the stairs, and then the front door, as it opens and slams closed.

 

 

 

\------

 

 

 

 

**Are you home? I need to see you. –J**

 

 

John's text comes out of the blue a few days later. After their – unsuccessful - encounter, Sherlock decided to keep quiet, let John stew it over – let himself take a breath, think about everything, re-adjust his plan. He feels less and less organised now, considerably less sure about John's feelings than he had been at the beginning, because John wants him, but he wants to be with Mary, which is something Sherlock had never had to deal with before.

So his text catches him by surprise and there's only one thing Sherlock can text back.

**_Are you drunk? SH_ **

He regrets his reply almost immediately. As soon as John texts back – You know what, never mind –J – Sherlock scrambles to find something else to say, because he's just made John retreat into his shell and that's not what he wants at all.

 

_**Where are you? I'll come to you. – SH** _

As a result of a mix of deduction and instinct Sherlock knows that John isn’t home with Mary. John needs to see him, John is willing to come to Baker Street, _sober_ ; Sherlock can just feel there's something strange.

 

**I'm at the Mitre. Hotel. Down the road from my flat. -J**

 

 

Sherlock bites his lower lip. He looks around, thinks. John wants to see him. John wants to see him, and Sherlock doesn't know why, but he hopes, so he's not going to leave anything to fate. He's not an expert in seduction, that's a given – he tries to think what would _an expert in seduction_ do.

Irene. What would Irene do?

She would dress up – or, more likely, undress. Wear what she knows her lover likes.

Quickly, Sherlock changes into a pair of black tailored trousers that he knows hug his thighs and cling to his slim hips so tightly, and into a dark mahogany shirt that's so sheer it makes the outline of his nipples clearly visible. He leaves it generously open at the collar – two or three buttons undone to reveal the smooth V of skin on his chest – and forgoes the jacket he'd usually wear over it in favour of just grabbing his Belstaff and running out the door.

His heart is hammering out of nervousness when he finally gets to John's hotel. John’s appreciative look when he opens the door, though – up, down, slowly, lingering on his hips and chest – is rather satisfying.

The room is chilly; the bed still made. John hasn't been there long.

Sherlock inhales deeply.

“What happened?”

John snorts, frowns. Still standing, he looks at Sherlock, then away at the unadorned wall.

“We had a fight.”

Sherlock tries to catch John’s eyes, careful. He really isn't sure he should be asking any questions. “What did you want to see me for?” He asks instead.

He barely even has to deduce anything: the look on John’s face tells him everything he needs to know.

 

 

 

\------

 

Lying in bed, later that night, Sherlock thinks.

John is sleeping next to him, snoring softly every now and then, naked. It's weird: for all his thinking, Sherlock had never imagined that John would sleep naked after sex. In Sherlock’s mind he always wore a shirt, or his boxers.

Sheet wrapped securely around his chest – smells clean, a bit aseptic, but with John's scent on it every now and then – Sherlock thinks, and blinks very awake, very alert eyes.

Of course he’d known it would end this way. It was what he'd wanted: a second chance. He’d wanted John to want him again, he’d wanted John to be with him; he’d wanted John to kiss him and touch him and have him.

And he got all of it: John had kissed him, kissed his mouth and his chin and the side of his throat, stroked his hair, and his nipples and his belly, and though Sherlock had wanted to be the seducer, John had seduced him, gently but passionately coaxed him to bed.

This time there was only a very faint taste of whisky on John’s tongue – John wasn't drunk, or even tipsy, but he had drunk hours earlier, maybe after the fight with Mary. Sherlock liked that taste, the warmth and familiarity of it, liked watching John kiss and lick it into Sherlock’s body – down his throat, over his sternum, under his armpit, John had to hold Sherlock’s arm firm above his head so that he could reach exposed skin - thoroughly around his nipples and on them and bitten into them.

He had kissed down lightly along Sherlock’s taut abdomen until he’d reached the jut of his pelvic bone, kissed there, and further down to Sherlock’s cock. Scolded Sherlock, in a growl, for not laying still; smelled him and kissed him in his pubic hair and took him into his mouth, as if they'd done that before, as if all his boundaries had just disappeared in a moment just like Sherlock was hoping they would.

John had made him come like that and then climbed up his body until he was face to face with Sherlock and breathing the same air, and held his eyes as Sherlock struggled to catch his breath and panted, and looked back, mesmerised.

Sherlock had wanted to return the favour, desperately wanted John in his mouth too and to see him undone, but John had held his chin in his hand firmly until Sherlock had closed his eyes, and opened his legs.

Sherlock closes his eyes now as he remembers what happened only perhaps a couple of hours earlier (who's keeping count?): the feeling of John, inside him, strong and hard and wanting, finally. Sherlock had kissed him passionately and whined loud in his mouth and growled; John had finally let go, closed his eyes and given himself to Sherlock and let Sherlock's body take him over the brink.

Only now Sherlock feels it. The muted discomfort of an exertion to which his body isn't used, but which reminds him that it actually happened. The dull ache, there in his lower belly, that speaks of the abandon and desire they've always felt and they still feel now.

Sherlock got what he wanted – yet now, he isn't so sure of it.

As John begins to stir behind him, Sherlock thinks. Is this it? Is this all he wanted? For John to sleep with him, for them to finally cross the barrier, only for John to go back to his partner? Back to the person he is actually with, the person he actually has feelings for?

“Hmm,” John mumbles softly against his ear as he rolls over then, chest on Sherlock’s back, legs alongside legs. His hand snakes up to stroke Sherlock’s hair back from his nape, and then John’s lips are on it, his breath warm on Sherlock’s exposed skin. “Hmm,” he purrs softly again; Sherlock wonders if he's still asleep somehow. He closes his eyes as John kisses the side of his neck again and then lifts himself up on an elbow to kiss around his face, along Sherlock’s jaw, wanting to find his mouth.

Sherlock wants to give in and give himself over again, turn around and touch and kiss while John seems so willing to lay there with him - but he can't. This is not all he wants; if this is all John can give, then it's not what Sherlock was looking for.

“John.” Sherlock shrugs John off, gently enough. Pulls himself up to sitting. His hair is all over the place and he's completely nude, and he wants his clothes.

He can feel John frown behind him.

“Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock finds his trousers on the floor, pulls them on. The carpet is prickly under his bare feet and reminds him that they're in a hotel room. How squalid – what was he thinking?

“Sherlock?” John calls again, and from the rustling of sheets he's pulled himself up to sitting, too.

“Mary,” Sherlock says, dry, under his breath. He pulls his shirt on, hastily buttons it up without looking at John.

John clears his throat.

“She's left me, Sherlock.” John looks down for a moment, then up again at Sherlock. “We – we aren't together anymore.”

The instant of shock is evident on Sherlock’s face and it makes his hands freeze mid-movement as he's tying his shoes. His mind wants to feel relief, but Sherlock quickly schools himself into rigidity once again, makes the words come out of his mouth in one of his well-practiced scoffs.

“How wonderful.”

“What - Sherlock,” John says, and he sits up properly, and frowns. “I thought you—“

“You thought I'd be happy? Oh yes John, I'm elated.” Sherlock scoffs again, this time he can't take the bite out of his words, or stop the glare he sends in John's direction as he quickly puts his coat on, then his scarf. Infuriatingly, his hands are trembling a bit.

“Wait a second.” John is properly, outright scowling now. “Why are you getting angry with me? Did you forget maybe that I was the one supposed to be angry, because of what you did? Did you conveniently forget that small detail??”

Sherlock looks at him sideways. John is raising his voice. He's got the sheets pooled around his midriff, barely covering his nudity, and Sherlock thinks he should really leave quickly and spare him the embarrassment of getting into a shouting match while stark naked.

“Nevermind,” he declares, through his teeth almost, and stalks towards the door.

“You were completely fine with me between your legs earlier, but now the great Sherlock Holmes has to have one of his famous strops, doesn't he?!”

John is yelling, and Sherlock closes his eyes, sets his teeth - curses his damn pounding heart. The slam of the door behind him as he leaves is satisfying noise to his ears.

 

 

\------

 

 

 

Of course, Sherlock wasn't expecting to be able to sleep after that. He's home, feels full of nervous energy, but he refuses to pace like some wronged Victorian damsel one step away from falling to her knees and bursting into tears. He's tried playing the violin, but Mrs Hudson has already reprimanded him – gently – because ‘oh, Sherlock, darling, please. It's four in the morning!’

So now he's curled up in his chair, in his dressing gown, hands steepled in front of his mouth and eyes closed. His fingers slide slowly and gently over his lips as he thinks, the touch a much-needed, comforting caress.

His brain is in shambles, his Mind Palace a riot of scraps of shattered theories, a room full of knotted wires and thoughts and ideas. For a touch of that drama he loves so much, his ‘get John back’ plan lies in a mound of ashes after his imaginary self set it on fire. It was wrong; it was all wrong. He doesn't want John back like they used to be – with John home with him but looking for sex, for love, elsewhere, with them tiptoeing around each other and not being able to control their jealousy and attraction but having to anyway, with John _dating_. Certainly not after what happened between them.   
Mary left John, but so what? If John still has feelings for her, if John is waiting for Mary to take him back – Sherlock grimaces mentally, and maybe even in reality – if John thinks he can have Sherlock _just in the meantime,_ then Sherlock isn't interested.

Sherlock ignored a very important variable, and it has affected the outcome of the whole plan. _Stupid._

It's then that the beep of his phone startles him out of his reverie. A text is flashing on the screen; Sherlock picks it up.

 

 

**I'm outside. I want to apologise. Can I come in? –J**

 

 

Sherlock blinks. John is outside? It’s almost absurd, and he doesn’t believe it. He tries to get back into his Mind Palace, but his phone flashes up with another text.

 

 

**Please. I've got the keys? Please just let me know if I can come in. – J**

**I was a complete dick and I'm sorry. Please let me apologise to you. – J**

 

 

Sherlock frowns and sets his jaw, and rises to his feet, clutching his phone in his hand. He walks two steps towards the window, cranes his neck: John is really outside, really on the pavement in front of 221b, pacing a little, oscillating. It's lucky that Sherlock is making sure he's hiding behind the sheer curtains, because John looks up then, looks towards the window – hopeful like an out-of-his-time Romeo doing his best to woo Juliet.

Sherlock smiles a little despite himself, feels his chest flush with interest at the thought.

 

 

**I know you're awake. I will stay here until you reply to me and let me apologise to you. Just so you know. – J**

 

 

Sherlock knows he will.

**_Fine. Come up. SH_ **

He feels woefully underdressed in his dressing gown when John appears at the door, wrapped in his green parka and with condensation still showing in his breath. Sherlock feels he should be dressed, because John doesn't live there anymore, John no longer gets to see him without his armour. He stiffens, looks away as John approaches.

“You didn't have to do this.”

John takes a breath.

“No, no, I did have to. I was a real dick. I – I should have never said what I said.”

John is looking at him while he speaks, and he seems sincere – but Sherlock juts his chin up in proud stubbornness.

“Are you done?”

“Sherlock,” John says. He takes another breath – gathering his patience, Sherlock imagines.

“Look, it's fine. You came here to apologise, and I accept your apology. I'm sorry Mary left you – maybe you can still talk to her about it and salvage the situation. Good luck with that.”

Sherlock knows he's being hard on John, but honestly, what else can he do? He went after something unprepared and unarmed, stupidly so, and now he has to make a hasty retreat. The sooner John thinks it's all fine, the better, for the both of them.

He steps away, walks back towards the window, picks up his violin _even though it'll make Mrs Hudson yap again._

John looks at him, frowning as if he doesn't understand.

“What? No.” His voice sounds genuinely shocked and Sherlock looks up from the bow in his hand, fixes him with a sharp look.

John protests again.

“I don’t—This is not how it is at all!”

Sherlock keeps quiet.

“Sherlock. I have – so many things have happened recently.” John seems to have gathered himself a bit more, perhaps resigned himself to having to explain, somehow, whatever there is to explain. Sherlock lets him, but doesn’t look up.

“I haven’t behaved like I should have, I know, and like I said – I’m sorry. It’s been hard for me, too. But I think you have it all wrong.”

Sherlock looks up then; his eyes are on fire. _I know I have it wrong, thank you very much._ He feels like snarling something, he feels like pacing, he feels like leaving the flat to go anywhere that’s not Baker Street right now; but John must know, because he takes a step closer – Sherlock steps back, violin and bow still stupidly held in his hands – and holds up a hand, carefully, as if to say _I’m unarmed._

“You have it wrong,” he murmurs, searching for Sherlock’s eyes even though he’s avoiding him. “I’m not here because Mary left me. I don’t want to go after her. In fact she left me _because I wanted to be here_.”

Sherlock frowns, uncomprehending.

“I’ve been a dick all around, since – since when you came back. I thought I wanted to be with Mary, thought I wanted to marry her but – the truth is that I wanted – I wanted _you._ I wanted my old life with you. I wanted _more._ ” John has said this in a breath and now swallows, clears his throat. Looks so worried.   
“Mary knew. And this is why she didn’t want to marry me. This is why she left me. She told me we couldn’t work out, because she wasn’t who I wanted. And, Sherlock – I couldn’t -- there wasn’t anything I could say to that. Except that it’s the truth.”

Sherlock feels himself gaping at John, feels himself struggling to take a breath as if he’s forgotten how. He wasn’t expecting this at all, and in a small, remote part of his chest he’s terrified it’s a lie, he’s terrified John is only saying a bunch of nice words. But John smiles, softly, tentatively, gently reaches out to take violin and bow from Sherlock’s unresponsive hands, places them back on the table. Sherlock’s hands are now free and John raises his a bit, again, palms open, smiles tentatively again.

“Let me touch you?”

Sherlock closes his mouth sharply – he’s now aware he was indeed gaping, as he had thought – and only looks on as John strokes up both his arms, then down, gently holds onto his fingers for a moment on the downward stroke.

“I was wondering if – if I could be the one, now, to have a second chance?” His eyebrows raise up. “What do you think?”

Sherlock isn’t really sure how people overcome feelings of surprise, of shock, when it comes to sentiment. When it comes to the person who matters the most. He knows that he is blinking, now, as if there is a fog he needs to clear away from his eyes – he wonders if it’s tears. He knows that John is smiling, he knows that he’s chuckling a bit – not fazed by Sherlock’s short-circuiting, not a bit – and pulling himself up to kiss Sherlock on the mouth, one, two, three times.

Sherlock knows that he’s kissing back; he even surprises himself. John is kissing him and Sherlock kisses back, and John has come back to him, just like Sherlock came back to John.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock murmurs, low, his eyes lost looking at John’s eyes. “Perhaps we could give it to each other. _A second chance_.”

John smiles.

“I would really like that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment or a pip if you liked this story! THANK YOU!!!! xx


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